


L.E.G.O. Dimensions: Multiversal Domination

by AimeeStark



Series: L.E.G.O. Dimensions: Multiversal Domination [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Doctor Who (2005), LEGO Dimensions, The LEGO Movie (2014), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Human Legos, Multiverse, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-18 21:09:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11882868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AimeeStark/pseuds/AimeeStark
Summary: Based on the LEGO Dimensions video game, the story re-imagines the characters as realistic based on the media from which they came instead of as LEGO minifigs.  The plot will follow the game's overall storyline, but with embellishments and expansions.Submitted so far is the first four parts of the Prologue, which introduces us to the game's main characters - Batman, Gandalf, Wyldstyle - and Clara Oswald from Doctor Who in their natural settings.





	1. Prologue

**Prologue: Part I**

**Reality Designation: “TARDIS”**

     Adventure beckons to a certain school teacher in Great Britain. Well, adventure will eventually beckon, thinks Clara Oswald. The young woman walks to her motorcycle at the end of a school day at Coal Hill Academy. A spring breeze washes through her brown hair. She closes her eyes and grins, hoping the Doctor will return for her today. She craves another journey into the unknown. She yearns for more time with that time-travelling alien madman and his spinning blue box.

     Clouds gather like spectators above her as she rides for London. The air tingles, and her nose catches the sour smell of change. Where most people would think rain, Clara brightens in recognition of these signs. She hopes to hear the familiar raspy wheezes of the Doctor’s time machine/spaceship, the TARDIS. She looks for it, hoping to see it materialize near her. But her expectations are wrong this time.

     Wind strengthens along the road. The rush grows into a roar. Debris spatters on her helmet. Clara begins to lose control of her bike, unable to withstand the wind speed. Reality tears. A hole opens from nothing. Blue matter swirls inside; a vortex concentrating the wind into a vacuum. Clara’s motorcycle topples, sending her flying face-first. She tenses in anticipation of colliding with solid pavement. Her body stops hard with her outstretched hands a few centimeters from the road. She reached a point of equilibrium with the force of the vortex. The moment ends, and Clara and her bike are sucked into the hole.

     “Doctoooooooooooooor,” she screams. Clara Oswald, the Impossible Girl, echoes into time and space.

**Prologue: Part II**

**Reality Designation: “Gotham”**

     Alarms blare at a military warehouse along the Gotham docks. Some idiot triggered the security grid. The revolutionary/mercenary/criminal mastermind Bane whistles and circles a finger in the air, signaling his crew to cut the raid short. They have enough of what they need.

     “Fool,” he barks at the idiot. He can tell who tripped the alarm. He’s trying to look fake-busy. “I’ll deal with you later.”

     Bane clicks a device on his belt. He came prepared. Explosions shake the building from small charges set at key locations to block military responders and guarantee an escape route.

     “Move out! And stay alert,” he commands. “Batman will be here soon.”

     Crew members nod and give thumbs-up. He chose them carefully: ex-military, ex-cons and aimless pros – disciplined, with little fear. Maybe not enough fear. They seem to underestimate the Bat as they rally.

     Armed thugs take point, the rest carry metal crates while wearing lead-lined gloves. The grunts lead the way through Bane’s plan-B escape route. Bane picks up the rear; an obelisk of muscle, rising half-a-foot or more above his compatriots, he stomps in silhouette wearing black combat boots, combat gear and his signature black-and-red luchador mask. He watches for Batman’s inevitable sneak-attack. He can’t let the vigilante get in the way of this job. His employer was… strict, for lack of a better word, in his insistence to receive the cargo intact.

     The crew reaches panel trucks parked near the warehouse. They begin loading the crates. The area is still quiet. Bane doesn’t like it. Too much is at stake.

     A rustle. There! The faint sound comes from behind and above him. Batman arrives, and he knows Bane knows he’s here. The scrape of boot on debris was his calling card. Neck muscles bulging, Bane cocks his head toward the sound. He listens with his opposite ear, expecting a misdirect.

     He feels the impact before hearing the smack. A blunt object bashes him, colliding with his chin. His head snaps over his shoulder. A piece of his mask tears. Through the bright pain fog, Bane sees a charging figure – Batman’s punk, Robin. He hurled his wuss-staff into Bane’s face. The kid, in his prancy red, yellow and green tights, aims a punch at his chin, hoping to keep him off balance. Bane’s faster. He catches Robin’s fist with a massive hand, like a ping-pong ball in a catcher’s mitt. Bane clamps down and twists, flipping the Bratboy Wonder to the ground.

     Another blow to the lower back bends Bane the wrong way. He loses his grip on Robin as he crashes to his knees. Batman reveals himself by bailing out his teen pinch-hitter.

     “This heist is over, Bane,” Batman declares. “Stay down and order your men to stand down, or I start shattering bones.”

     The vigilante/detective/superhero glooms over Bane, an angry shadow in a black bat-eared cowl and cape and gray body armor. The gold and black bat insignia on his chest almost glows like a full moon. Robin takes position next to him, staff back in hand.

     “The Dark Knight cometh,” Bane laughs. “Like a coward, he uses children as pawns and strikes from behind. Such bravery.”

     “You would see teamwork that way,” Robin boasts.

     “Enough,” Batman holds up a gloved fist. “Surrender, now! You’re finished.”

     Bane chuckles again and clicks another hidden button in his hand. Explosions erupt from the vacant shed behind Batman and Robin. The two duck and, acting on instinct, swivel toward the blasts. Bane presses a finger in his ear.

     “Attack,” he bellows.

     Bullets rip from guns held by Bane’s crew. The mercenaries had stopped loading their trucks to watch the showdown unfold. They await the boss’ orders. Robin hits the ground. Batman blurs into action. He swings his cape in front of him, bullet-resistant to deflect the incoming fire. At the same time, he throws several silver balls at the thugs. Smoke pours from the spheres. Vision obscured, the gunmen fire wildly into the gloom.

     Batman and Robin move like specters in the smoke. One-by-one, Bane’s men fall, victims of the duo’s silent assault. They’re a well-oiled machine; two cogs working in tandem. Batman has to visualize their partnership in that way. Anything else and he risks feeling emotions. Emotions cloud judgment and concentration.

     The smoke clears. Batman and Robin are the last standing. Fallen thugs litter the lot around their vans. Some are unconscious, others writhe in pain. Batman scans the area. Bane is no longer at the scene. He fled in the gloom. The tearing sound of a motorcycle echoes off buildings lining the route into metropolitan Gotham.

     “Check those crates,” Batman commands Robin.

     The teen complies, examining a coded tag on the side of one box. He pulls a handheld digital device from his utility belt and scans the markings. Results flash on the mini-monitor.

     “You’re not gonna like this,” Robin says. “It’s Kryptonite.”

     “Let’s go,” Batman responds without hesitation. “We can’t let Bane leave Gotham with that material.”

     The two dash to vehicles parked nearby. Robin kick-starts a motorcycle, while Batman roars the Batmobile to life. They thunder after Bane into the heart of Gotham.

**Prologue: Part III**

**Reality Designation: “Middle-Earth”**

     Shadow and flame.

     Shadow and flame conspire to trap the Fellowship of the Ring and make the mines of Moria their tomb, Gandalf thinks. The ancient wizard stands at a large door that separates him and his eight companions from the evil massing on the other side. Orcs speak, orcs laugh, and orcs screech in the chamber beyond. Their drumbeats spell the Fellowship’s doom. _Doom doom!_ they echo from everywhere and nowhere.

     Gandalf recites sacred words at the door in hopes of preserving their survival. The other members of the Fellowship rest at a passage beneath him after fleeing a skirmish with an advance-troop of orcs. Gandalf spares a thought for Frodo. He’s hurt after a spear plowed into him. He should be dead. Gandalf suspects the young hobbit’s heritage saved him.

     The wizard led the group – two humans, a dwarf, an elf and four hobbits, including Frodo the ring-bearer – through Moria on a quest to destroy the dark lord Sauron’s One Ring. Their destination: Mordor, a land of desolation, Sauron’s stronghold from where he will unleash his plans for domination. Sauron, the embodiment of hate, malice and destruction, crafted the Ring in the flames of the volcano Orodruin centuries ago. He poured most of his power into it so to serve as his key weapon for ultimate tyranny. Only the fires of Orodruin, also called Mount Doom, can destroy the Ring and Sauron with it.

     “There are older and fouler things than Orcs in the deep places of the world,” Gandalf had said in caution when they entered Moria. The statement also proved to be a forewarning. He senses an unknown power before him, one greater than the sum of the orcs in the chamber.

     The door bends inward a bit. Gandalf tightens his grip on an iron ring bolted onto the wooden door and murmurs a new spell to keep the entryway closed. The tip of his staff gleams brighter. He intensifies his concentration on the door.

     Despite its legend of terror and death, the former Dwarven kingdom of Moria is still the best available route to reach Mordor as quickly and secretly as possible. Nature, guided by a sinister force, beat back the Fellowship’s attempt to cross mountains on their way south. They had little choice but to delve underground, through the cavernous and crumbling necropolis.

     Orcs babble in their harsh language on the other side of Gandalf’s door. The wood muffles their words, but he catches one: “Fire.” He hopes the spell he’s crafting can repel such an assault. He braces for the stench of smoke to seep through the cracks. Instead, the orc drums pound louder – _doom doom boom_. They beat for the Fellowship. They beat for him. A shadow drills into his mind.

     When the Fellowship entered Moria, he held a little hope to find dwarves controlling at least part of the mines. A dwarven expedition sought to reclaim their homeland a few years ago. Hope faded with each hour the Fellowship spent stumbling through the pitch dark passageways. The sheer magnitude of the great Moria was a threat to their survival. Gandalf’s leadership and memories of the place, along with shreds of insight from their resident dwarf, Gimli, kept them alive. The discovery of a shredded and burnt journal in the chamber Gandalf now blocks confirmed his fears: The expedition failed. They’re all dead.

     Now death stalks the Fellowship. Shadow eclipses Gandalf’s mind. A terrifying beast enters the room, he senses. He stretches his might toward its limits.

     “You shall not pass,” he whispers, and his knuckles grip the ring tighter.

     Gandalf begins reciting a stronger barring spell; an ancient Elvish one, more potent but also more complex. In the glow of his staff, a dim hue spreads over the door, matching the color of the robes and wide-brimmed hat that earned him the name Greyhame. The wood seems to fossilize to the stone around it. The shadow in his mind recedes. He presses his will harder and speaks with greater passion. The magic is working. The magic…

     Fades.

     The spell dissipates like wisps of steam after snow is dumped on a fire. The beast counters him. Gandalf feels its demonic touch on the other side of the door. It pulls the door open a crack. Fear scalds him. He plays an Ace and skips to the end of the Elvish spell. He speaks it with force.

     The broken magic has explosive consequences. The door shatters. Gandalf flies backward into the narrow façade of the stairwell behind him. Breathless from the impact, he scrambles down the steps. Stone crashes from above. The chamber collapses, unable to support the extraordinary forces clashing around it. Gandalf’s gambit destroyed its resilience.

     The beast retreats. He senses it’s regrouping, preparing a new tactic to ensnare the Fellowship. Gandalf loses his footing. He tumbles several feet down the stairs and into the midst of his companions. They gasp in alarm, eyes wide. Scared children, they seem, even the elf Legolas. He’s almost as old as nature. Against the beast above, they are infants. The _doom-doom-dooms_ of the orc drums beat faster.

     “Gandalf fell,” the hobbit Sam whispers to his friend Frodo. “He falls before us.”

     Gandalf glances at Sam as he picks himself up. Sam’s observation feels prophetic. Before the rest of the group can react, before he gives into fear, he prods them to run into the black passage in front of them. He’s weak, drained from expending so much energy. His long, ancient hair plasters to sweat on his face, and his legs feel like sapling branches in a storm. He leans on Gimli for support as they flee through the corridors of Moria.

     Heat signals the group’s arrival to the path to the exit. Sounds of pursuit grow more distant. The nine rest to catch their breath and gather their strength. Gandalf describes the disaster at the door to prepare the Fellowship for the evil they now face. As he speaks, a vision coalesces in his mind.

     He sees shadow and flame, the towers of Isengard and Barad-dur, the orc armies of Sauron and Saruman, the son of Man as a beacon in the Dark, and Frodo wrestling with his fate. The vision splits. Gandalf’s head wants to burst. New images flicker forth. He sees a dark knight and a warrior-maiden, a forest, a desert, a chamber of metal, Gondor fallen, people and beings he can’t recognize and weapons beyond his imagination. The vision ends with the image of a face. The visage swirls behind a fearsome mask, eyes glowing with cosmic might. The Eye of Sauron pales in comparison. This new face slithers with illness. He feels sick at the sight of it. Gandalf shuts his mind to the sights of the future and sets his focus on surviving the present.

**Prologue: Part III**

**Reality Designation: “Bricksburg”**

     You say you want a revolution, but you know, it’s gonna be pretty okay.

     The worlds are still in party mode since we stopped Lord Business’ plan to hermetically seal all existence. I’m not quite sure what that means either. I guess the best way to put it is thought killing everyone by freezing them in place was the best way to eliminate chaos or something. Since my boyfriend, errr, well, I guess he’s more like an ex now, or we’re on a break. Anyway, since Emmet talked LB out of being evil, he helped fix everything, then went on sabaatical or something – Business, that is, not Emmet. He’s back to being construction guy. He got promoted to supervisor!

  
     I’m still trying to figure out what I should do with my life now. Back during the Resistance, I changed my name to Wyldstyle and dyed my hair with three colors to stand out while I was on a quest to become the Special of prophesy. Emmet became the Special instead, and then we sorta realized everyone’s special. So now I’m just that chick Wyldstyle who helped take down Lord Business. I have a blog, but everyone keeps thinking I’m a DJ for hire. Whatevs.

  
     Maybe I should change my name and look again, find a new identity for this brave new place we’re building. Or maybe I could go back to being Lucy, the dreamer; get back to my roots and rediscover myself. Either way, I want to be awesome. I want people to see me and say, “That’s Wyldstyle. She saved the worlds. Let’s invite her to big, lavish parties.” Or, “I want to know her opinion of things.” Or, “She should be on TV, let’s give her a talk show.” That would be cool, wouldn’t it? A show like, The Wyldstyle Profile or something? I’d have all sorts of interesting people on and ask them tough questions about what they do.

  
     That’s just a thought. The truth is, I’m bored. I can’t hang out here on some celebration vacation anymore. I gotta keep moving, like a shark (Ooh! There’s a thought. Maybe I could change my name to Sharknight or Sharkmazing). I think that’s kinda why Emmet and I split. I need to do something new. I need more… adventure. But Emmet’s content to go back to work and do practically the same thing every day. Routine hurts my stomach and brain. We’re still friends and stuff, and we hang out together or with our friends; I’m even getting used to the double-decker couch he installed in his apartment. It’s actually not a super-terrible idea, as long as I’m on one of the ends with a cupholder.

  
     I want something new and crazy to happen. That’s not to say I want bad things to happen to people, but I feel like I need to chase after something new. I need a purpose like that, be like a hero. Nobody pays much attention to me anymore since Taco Tuesday, the day Lord Business turned his weapon, the Kra’gle, on the worlds and we stopped him. People cheered me then. I want them to cheer me again. I’ll show them what Wyldstyle can do. I’ll find a way to make them love me.

  
     I’ll figure it out. Right now, I gotta get ready to go to a party with Emmet and my friends. We’re celebrating the grand re-opening of the rebuilt Cloud Cukooland. It’s hard to explain if you don’t know what it is. I’ll have to tell you about it some other time. Let’s just say it was the center of the Resistance against Lord Business, but it got destroyed right before Taco Tuesday (Emmet’s fault, b-t-w, but he saved my life in the process, so it’s cool).

  
     I’ll talk to you again later. Hopefully by then, I’ll have a better idea of what I’m going to do with the rest of my life. For now, I’m gonna enjoy this party and show off some of the new dance moves I’ve been working on. I think I’ll wear my favorite black hoodie and workout pants with the color skrches on the side.


	2. Prologue Part V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final part of the prologue. The villain, Vortech, emerges and launches the beginning of his endgame.
> 
> This chapter follows the basic infrastructure of the opening scene to LEGO Dimensions. However, this is not a direct recreation. My version proceeds along a differing path. So, expect certain alterations.

**Prologue: Part V**

**Reality Designation: ???**

 

     Existence spasms.

     Every organism in every universe along the infinite loop of creation sucks back in simultaneous hurt.  They don’t know they share the same experience, but everything feels encumbered by a new weight of dread.

     The malaise derives from an invasion of the Core of all realities by a living blight, the pan-galactic overlord Vortech.  He defiled the plane by emerging from a dimensional portal – a corpse-colored lesion of gaseous turbulence – like a sentient cancer spewing from a nightmarish birth canal. 

     He steps out of the portal and into gray void.  A platform coalesces as the unformed matter that encompasses the Core cedes to his Will.  Upon this manifestation Vortech stands. 

     His name catalyzes fear throughout the multiverse.  He embodies domination and oppression.  He possesses numerous titles, collected over the course of eons: Genius, Master, Warlock, Conqueror, Despot, Emperor, Pharaoh, Devastator, Divirus, Malignarch, Omnipotetenate, Tyrannapocalypse, and Traveler.

     His original identity drowned in the tides of history; lost through ages and ages beyond recollection, beyond even the formation of some galaxies.  Who he was no longer holds relevance to him.  Who Vortech is now, his desire to ascend to Godhood, threatens the sanctity of every life across the spectrum of the multiverse.  He inhales nothingness around him, the first act in his final plan.

     “I’ve found it,” he declares.  “After all these years of searching, I have opened the way to the Core.”

     The journey that brought Vortech to the Core robbed him of his corporeal form, the last physical link to his humanity.  All that’s left is anger, hatred, envy and nihilism contained in the shape of a humanoid essence illuminated by cosmic light and darkness, branded with the scars of universes conquered and lost. 

     Vortech bears the Helm of the Daemon, which was grafted to his head as punishment following the revolution that deposed him from power.  He still wears tattered remnants of his Imperial garb as a reminder of what he lost.  His only trophy: The Staff of Perpetuity, the key to unlocking the Forever Realms and the path to the Core.

     “Congratulations on the successful completion of your quest,” exclaims a voice, tinged with digital distortion and sarcasm, from the portal’s entrance.  “You discovered the literal definition of nothing, Your Excellency.”

     “Do not test my patience with your idiocy, X-Po,” Vortech warns.

     “I apologize, my Lord.  I intended no offense.  I sought only to learn how this world will serve your purposes.”

     “Enough of your excuses.  Stay silent and observe.”

     X-Po mutes his audio software.  In his present form, he exists as consciousness stored in a box-shaped processor.  A lens mounted on the front provides visual capabilities; two pincers on each side allow physical manipulation; and micro-rotors serve as a means of propulsion.

     Vortech raises his arms and whispers an incantation.  The three rings at the top of his staff glow with the same cerulean hue as the portal imploding behind him.  More nothing from the Core becomes something.  Matter rises from space and solidifies against Vortech’s platform, extending it into a passageway.  He strides forth.  With each step, his structure expands.  Path becomes boulevard; boulevard becomes highway.  Columns and statues celebrating the glory of Vortech grow at intervals along the edges.

     At the terminus, a massive block of matter settles into place and begins taking shape.  Walls of intricate triangular latticework extend, adding dimension and geometry to formlessness.  Towers topped with spires mold themselves at each corner.  They pay homage to a larger tower that builds in the center – a fist raised in defiance of the metaphorical heavens. 

     Vortech climbs the edifice to its pinnacle.  He lifts the staff again.  The peak develops into a wide hall.  Brilliant torches of orange light reflect off the polished deep-violet walls of cosmic stone.  A vista with a balcony opens from one of the walls.  At the hall’s heart, a throne upon a dais manifests.  The seat derives from the same reflective material as the walls, and is etched with hieroglyphics depicting Vortech’s rise and fall.  He takes his place as Monarch.

     “My reign begins, again,” he wheezes.

     “I bow to your majesty,” X-Po says.  “Well, I bow as well as I’m able.”

     Hovering before the throne, he dips in an awkward gesture.

     “I accept your allegiance, hollow though it may be.”

     “Thank you, Master.  But, permit me one question?”

     “You may ask,” Vortech allows with impatience in his tone.

     “What now,” X-Po asks.  “I mean, after years and years of searching, as well as committing numerous unspeakable acts, you finally made it to the Core.  And you’ve crowned yourself ruler of nothing – this realm is empty.  What’s your next plan?  I can’t imagine you intend to retire here in Casa de Nada, and I don’t see myself playing butler.”

     “Insolent machine,” Vortech glowers, eyes flashing behind his mask.  “You are correct, this is no exile.  We have located the foundation prime of the multiverse; the alpha and omega of all that ever was, is, and shall be.  The fundamental basis of life and creation spawns from the Core.  From this place, I will tap the roots of existence and prune them into My perfect order.  I will become God.”

     X-Po clicks as he processes the information.  Certain data fails to connect his lord’s intentions with a method for carrying them to fruition.

     “I profess ignorance, and beg mercy, for failing to see how you will achieve such glory,” he says.  X-Po learned early in service to Vortech to choose his phrasing with care.  He doesn’t always succeed, which over the multitude of years has resulted in harsh punishments, including the loss of his humanity.

     “Your perception of this plane is inaccurate.  The ‘nothing’ you describe is primordial matter, which can shape the destinies of every reality.  To do so, I need circuits that connect the Core to each world.  They come in the form of special devices – elements serving as foundations of their worlds.”

     “But, according to ancient texts you stored in my databanks, tampering with foundational elements, especially on the scale you seek, could result in catastrophic destabilization of infinite proportions.”

     “I accept the risks,” Vortech asserts.  “My course is set.”

     “Sire, I must protest this action you’re taking,” X-Po cringes.  “Conquering realities, ruling everything, I will fulfill my programming to serve your ambitions.  But, endangering all existence falls beyond my parameters.  I cannot take part in such madness.”

     “Faithless, disloyal fool!  Your concerns, your defiance, hold no weight.  Plans are already underway to acquire the first elements.  Since you refuse to accept the enforcement of my Will, I have no further use for you.”

     Vortech stands with outstretched arms.  He whispers an incantation and the Staff of Perpetuity glows.  Behind him, a new portal opens.  X-Po rattles as his master’s power twists electronics in his housing.  He deactivates.  The vacuum of the wormhole sucks the metallic shell into banishment.

     “I discard you,” Vortech sneers.

     The portal closes.  The staff flares.  Sparks of interdimensionality sprinkle from the three rings.  Vortech coughs and chokes.  His cosmic form loses cohesion, causing a rapid expansion that warps his appearance to the verge of dissipation.  A moment later, he regains control over his physical self.  He slumps onto his throne.

     “I’m losing time,” Vortech gasps.  “The sacrifices I’ve made to wield this power and make this journey are coming due.  I cannot perish now, so close to attaining Perfection.  I must conserve energy and use this palace as my sanctum.”

     Vortech pauses in thought.  If preserving his life means restricting travel across dimensions, then how will he dominate them?  A memory flickers.  His absolute authority spanned for ages and ages that he forgot one of the most basic tenets of power.

     “I shall have to recruit lieutenants and captains to assert my control throughout the cosmos.”

     Vortech stands again, leaning on the staff as a crutch.  He raises an arm, and from the dais a pedestal forms, topped with a black orb.  With a wave of his hand, the sphere glows; the opaque darkness within shifts and roils.  He barks a one-word command and slams his palm onto the orb.

Existence tremors.

\-- In Gotham City: A laughing clown cries, and a dark knight doubts.

\-- On Middle-Earth: A fiery eye blinks, and a wizard considers surrender.

\-- Near Bricksburg: A retired business leader renews a craving, and a young rebel dreams of glory.

            A hunter cowers, a samurai loses focus, a prisoner quits running, and a scientist stops dreaming.

            In London, on a quiet suburban sidewalk, a peculiar blue police box shimmers and emanates a grinding, whooshing sound.  Passers-by take no notice until a deep bell tolls from within.  Echoes of it carry for miles.  The box loses its grip on reality and slips from view.  Static charges crackle in its wake, and a burning square is seared into the pavement.

            “No, no, no, no, no!  This can’t be right,” an older gentleman cries in a Scottish accent.  “The TARDIS just pulled itself back into the time stream.”

            The man, known only as the Doctor, races around a console surrounding a large piston at the heart of a circular room.  He pulls levers, activates dials and checks monitors in a frantic hope to calm the rapid punch of the alien engine and understand the source of its distress.

            “Why would you do that,” the Doctor calls.  “I was bringing Clara a pie.  I wanted to show her the triple solar eclipse by the moons of Safbrac 4.  That only happens once every 2,700 years, you know.”

            The sentient time machine gives no verbal response.  The cloister bell chimes another warning.  The chamber, impossibly larger than the exterior of the TARDIS’ disguise as a police box, quakes with the dissonance.  The TARDIS rocks in alarm.  The Doctor pulls more levers and scans another monitor.

            “Ohhh!  That’s not good.  The pie and the eclipse will have to wait.  It was going to be fun.  I wanted to try a tangerine pie.”

            He shakes his head.  Fingers dance over buttons, assigning coordinates to assuage the vehicle’s agitation.  Vibrations stabilize as the TARDIS is appeased by the Doctor’s direction.  Shaggy, graying eyebrows scrunch over wrinkled eyes to analyze new data readings.

            “We have a full-scale crisis on our hands, and it may be more than I can handle alone,” he admits.  “We’ll have to make a couple stops, do a little re-jiggering, and maybe pick up some extra firepower along the way.”

            The Doctor slams a forked switch into place.  The TARDIS accelerates and hurtles down a corridor of bent time and space.


End file.
